


If you want to get out alive

by Sunnyrea



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“We don't need to keep 'marching on,' we can stop.” John pauses until Harold looks up at him again. “Finch, we can stop.” Harold shakes his head. “We can stop.”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Can we?” Harold tilts his head. “Can you? You told me when I faltered, when I thought it was too much to go on, you told me we need a purpose, just as I told you when we first started this. Do we really stop now?”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“How many people we care about need to die?” John says.</i>
</p><p>[Fighting Samaritan. Loss and pain. How long can they go on?]</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you want to get out alive

**Author's Note:**

> Written prior to 4x13 (But you have to admit, seems even more applicable in many respects now after 4x21!)

The first one they lose is Sameen.

Underground in a last stand with a gun in her hand as the rest of them are saved, bullets in the wall, blood barely seen against black clothing, eternal defiance and Martine with a gun pointed at Sameen’s head.

–––––––––––––

“We have to get her back,” Root says the minute her feet hit the concrete of the abandoned Subway platform, even John rushing to keep up with her. She whirls around on the spot to stare at the two men. “We have to find her, now.”

“I think it best we attend to yours and Mr. Reese’s injuries first.”

Root touches her side – comes away with blood – and tosses her hair in the same instant. “I’ll be fine.” She turns again and strides toward the computers still set up on the desk outside of the Subway car. “We have to check the Wall Street feeds and see where they might be taking her.”

“Ms. Groves, you may think your injuries are not life threatening but –”

“She’s right, Harold,” John says as he eases himself down into a chair and points toward their first aid kit on the other side of the room. “We don’t have time.”

“What good could either of you possibly be to Ms. Shaw if you are already bleeding?” Harold snaps as he retrieves the first aid kit for John anyway.

John takes the kit one handed from Harold and starts to pull out gauze and tape. “We can patch ourselves up enough here and keep going, Finch.”

“John,” Harold insists but John shakes his head and holds up the supplies to Harold.

“The files are corrupted,” Root says suddenly.

John peeks around Harold as Harold unbuttons John’s shirt and puts the gauze over the bloody hole in John’s upper chest. “Corrupted?”

“It has to be on purpose, the feeds are clear up until she falls and there is no gunshot to the camera.” Root looks up from the screen. “If Samaritan made a point to alter these files then it must mean she is alive.”

“We don’t know that,” Harold says and he tapes down the gauze.

“What?” Root says.

“We all saw what happened, Ms. Groves. The fact that the video footage is compromised is not a concrete –”

Before Harold can finish, Root pulls him back and slams him onto the floor. She crouches over him, hands on his throat squeezing as she shouts words in his face. “She is alive, Harold! Alive! Do you hear me?”

“Root…” Harold gasps, grips her wrists and tries to pull her off but his vision is blurring.

Root shakes him by his neck, pushes him into the cement with her whole body weight. “Don’t you dare tell me she is dead because she is alive!”

“Root, stop!” John yells somewhere in the foggy distance. 

But Root does not let go of Harold. “I am not losing her yet, Harold, not now!”

Then suddenly Root flies back, her nails leaving dark red lines in Harold’s skin, as John pulls her off by her shoulders. Harold breathes in sharply, coughing and rolling painfully onto his side.

“We have to find her!” Root keeps crying. “She’s alive! We have to…” Root pulls in a deep breath which sounds like a ragged gasp of pain. Then she sags in John’s grip and puts her hands over her face.

John slides down with her onto his knees. “I know.”

Harold pulls himself up to his knees and looks at the two of them, worn and ragged. 

“I know,” John repeats to Root. “She’s alive.” And Harold sees John is just as close to the breaking point as Root is.

Harold forces himself to stand up, though he still feels unsteady. He walks over to the two of them half crouched and half sitting on the floor.

“Harold?” Root asks quietly as she pulls her hands away from her face. He is not sure which questions she wants answered.

“I did not say she was dead, Ms. Groves,” Harold says quietly, “only that we must find out what information we can first before we rush into action. We must all be alive as well in order to save her.”

Root’s jaw clenches as she looks up at Harold. John looks up at Harold too and Harold sees him shaking. Harold kneels down and pulls the two of them toward him. Root curls against him, arms around his waist and her head on his chest. John’s head rests against the other side of Harold’s chest with John’s arms limp at his sides. Harold puts one hand against Root’s hair and grips John’s shoulder tightly with the other. He feels them breathe in and out against him, their short and sharp breaths eventually evening out in time with his slow and steady ones.

“We will find her,” Harold whispers to them. “We will.”

–––––––––––––

The second one they lose is Root when they find Sameen.

–––––––––––––

“Which way Harold?” John says in Harold's ear, voice sounding like he is running.

“There is a corridor on your left,” Harold says as he scrolls through the blueprints on his tablet. He glances at the seemingly abandoned store front of the 'Stop and Shop' in this suburban, northern New York town. No one comes running out of any door yet. “Keep going and there is a freight elevator at the end, it will take you straight back up.”

Harold hears a gunshot over the phone connection. “Mr. Reese?”

“Almost there, Harold.”

“Where is Ms. Groves?”

“I'm –” Then Root curses and screams followed by the sound of more gunshots.

“Root!” John shouts.

Harold hears gunshots again, breaking glass, more crashes. “Left, come on, left!”

Root makes a groaning noise then gasps. “No, let go, I've got her.”

“You're bleeding, you can't –”

“I said, I've got her!”

“What's happening?” Harold asks. 

John makes an unintelligible sound which is probably the result of his punching someone. “Okay, I'll take this side and –”

“She says there's another exit, you draw them that way,” Root says.

“What is happening?” Harold repeats with more urgency.

“We are coming, Harold,” John says. “Get ready to drive.”

Harold hears more gunshots, a shout from Root again, what sounds like feet running, more punches, voices he does not recognize. Then suddenly, a door painted to match the stone wall of the building swings open and John comes running out. He shoots twice over his shoulder back into the doorway just before it slams closed. Harold drops his tablet then turns the key in the car ignition. One of the glass doors of the store front suddenly shatters with gunshots. A second later, Root steps through the glass. She is carrying Sameen. She stumbles twice as she hurries toward the car – not fast enough – and as she gets closer Harold sees her face is contorted in pain. John meets her just as they reach the car and he opens the back door for her. Root turns, lets herself fall back onto the car seats with Sameen mostly on top of her. She scoots back until her head hits the opposite door then John slams it closed and yanks open the passenger side door.

“Drive!” He snaps at Finch just as glass shatters back in the store again and Harold sees the figures of people emerging out of the corner of his eye.

Harold hits the gas and the car speeds away down the road, falling leaves swirling around them in some mockery of a pleasant, leisurely drive.

“Are you all right?” Harold asks to the car at large. 

He glances in the rear view mirror and one look tells him that Sameen is dead, has always been dead. Root sits half up against the car door with Sameen's body between her legs and Sameen's head against her chest. One bullet hole is clearly visible in Sameen's forehead. Root looks up and sees Harold's gaze. She looks down again and runs her hand over Sameen's hair.

“I couldn't leave her.” She breathes in deeply then makes a small sound of pain. “I couldn't...” 

John turns and looks back at her. “Root?”

“I'm... I'm just...” Harold glances back again and Root's eyelids flutter like she is trying not to pass out.

“Ms. Groves?” Harold asks, looks back at the road in front of them then looks up into the rear view mirror again. “Ms. Groves, are you hurt?”

“She was shot at least once,” John tries to reach back and push Sameen up so he can assess any damage on Root.

“I think...” Then Root turns her head and coughs sharply to the side – sounds like ripping – blood dribbling from her lips down her chin. Harold suddenly sees the dark blood and torn clothing covering her stomach.

“Stop the car, Finch,” John says.

“We can get her to a –”

“Not in time, pull over!”

Harold swings the wheel to the right and skids them to a stop on the shoulder. John jumps out of the car a second before Harold, pulling open the rear car door and hoisting Root out under her arms. Sameen's body thumps onto the car seats once Root's legs are free. 

“Root?” John says as he puts her down carefully onto the grass. 

“Open your eyes, Ms. Groves,” Harold says as he tries to pull her blood stained shirt away from her stomach but it sticks.

“Harr... harrrry...” Root smiles and coughs again. “Remember... remember when we fir... first met?”

Harold frowns and looks at her face. “You want to bring that up now?”

She laughs hoarsely. “You were funny.”

John and Harold look at each other sharply then back at her wound. John pulls his shirt out of his pants and rips off a portion. He balls it up and puts it over Root's wound. She gasps and moans but the sound is weaker than it should be.

“We need something to tape it.” John looks around him as if there might be some surgical supplies or pain medicine sitting nearby in the grass.

“Harry... Harold... Harry....” Root sing songs, quiet and weaker than just a moment earlier. “Remember…”

“Please, hold on, Ms. Groves,” Harold says then looks at John. “There has to be something we can –”

“The bullet is in her liver; she already had the pressure of carrying Shaw making her bleed faster.” John shakes his head. “If we had a shot of adrenaline or...”

“Harold.” Root grips Harold's wrist, suddenly strong and tight. He turns and looks at her. “Talk to Her.”

“Root, you...”

“Talk to Her,” Root repeats. “She needs you.”

Her hand falls back onto the grass – a warm spot burning on Harold's skin where Root let go. John presses down against the wound but they both see the blood stained through the fabric now. John pulls off his suit jacket and then his shirt. He rolls it up, and wraps it around and under her, tying it off tightly on top.

“Stay conscious Root,” John says. He looks up at Harold. “We get her back, I keep pressure.” John looks down the road. “How far is the nearest hospital?”

“It doesn't matter; we have to try.” Harold moves to stand up then Root breath turns shallow.

“Same... Sameen...” Root whispers.

Then her breath stops.

“No...” John pushes against the wound, tries to make it hurt. Root does not respond. “No!”

John takes her pulse – still for ten seconds – then he moves, hands on her chest, pushes down, breathes into her mouth, moves back to chest compressions.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold says.

“Come on, Root,” John says as he breathes into her mouth again. “Come on.”

“Mr. Reese.”

He switches back to chest compressions, pushing harder. “Come on, Root, not now.”

“John,” Harold insists and puts his hands over John's to stop him. “Stop.”

John looks up at Harold; his face is bare, wild, like the day Carter was shot, like when Harold saw him in the hospital before they met and John just learned about Jessica. John shakes his head but Harold squeezes John's hands and pulls them up and off of Root's chest.

“It's too late,” Harold says quietly.

“It's too soon,” John says and pulls his hands away from Harold. 

Harold looks down at Root – eyes closed, blood coating her middle and blood on her chest from John's hands and around her mouth. Harold remembers when she shot Alicia Corwin right beside him, when she slashed a razor across his hand, when she threatened Grace, pointed a gun at him. He remembers her running into danger alone against Samaritan, hacking Google and Yahoo right beside him, her smile, her witty remarks, the way her face lit up with The Machine in her ear. 

“We can't...” John says and Harold’s eyes tick up to John staring down at Root too.

Harold glances behind them; in the car Sameen's pony tail just hangs out of the door blowing slightly in the wind. Then he turns back.

“Mr. Reese.” John looks up at Harold and Harold clenches his jaw. “We have to.”

–––––––––––––

John and Harold bury Root and Sameen side by side. John picks a spot with sun and space but stone at their heads.

“Shaw would want her back to be secure with a good visual range in front,” John says 

“She's not an agent anymore, John,” Harold says as they stand over the fresh dirt. “And I think it matters more that they are together.”

John breathes in deeply then glances away at the trees. “Bit romantic for Shaw but Root would be happy.”

Harold laughs in a hollow way. “Perhaps Ms. Shaw would not have objected as much as we think.”

–––––––––––––

A pay phone rings, they receive another number and they save a lawyer who represents the wrong type of people.

“Is this what you do?” She asks as John ducks behind a car with her so their pursuers drive by without seeing them. “You save people?”

“Not all of them,” John says and over their phone line Harold hears and has to close his eyes.

–––––––––––––

The third one they lose is Fusco.

A case. A work 'accident.' A case without John. An 'accident' involving a gun. A case about what looked like a simple lover spat turned to murder. An 'accident' where the suspect was hiding a gun and Fusco was the only cop in the way.

A case and an accident with Samaritan's hand all over it.

–––––––––––––

“You don't have to do this, Mr. Reese.”

John looks sharply at Harold. “Yes, I do.”

“You are not the only friend on the force he had; in fact it may be better if it is someone else, someone he knows.”

“I am Lionel's partner right now. I am the one who should tell his son his father is dead.”

Harold tightens his hands on the steering wheel. “You are not actually a police officer, Mr. Reese.”

John leans over and turns off the car. “Finch, this is our mess. Lionel died because of us.”

“Mr. Reese...”

“I am telling his son, Finch, simple as that.” John opens his car door and walks out toward Fusco's house before Harold can say anything more.

Harold watches John walk up the steps and stop at the door. He pauses then reaches up and knocks. 

Harold pulls his laptop out from the back seat and turns it on. He types quickly, hacks the NYPD human resources department, pads Fusco's life insurance fund. Then he switches, finds the mother's address, hacks again – a trip, tickets, get them away.

Something crashes suddenly in the house. Harold's hands freeze and he looks over at the house. A curtain in the window ripples. Harold clicks one more key, confirms the money coming to Fusco's family then closes his laptop. A minute later John exits the house and walks back down the front steps. John comes around the car, opens the door and sits back down next to Harold.

“John?”

“His mother is with him.”

“And?”

“He didn't even know what he was fighting for, Harold; what he was fighting against.” John turns and looks at Harold.

Harold puts his laptop back behind his seat then shifts to face John. “He knew he was helping people, Mr. Reese. Detective Fusco, despite his past, wanted to help as any good cop does. He would have walked away if he didn't feel like he was part of the fight, a fight he wanted to fight.”

“Maybe, Finch, but we never trusted him enough to tell him the whole truth and now it's too late.”

“What could it have helped for him to have known?”

“He could have known we really trusted him.”

“We have suffered losses, Mr. Reese.” Harold looks away out the front wind shield. “But we cannot bring any of them back now. We cannot change our actions or theirs. We cannot fix this outcome. We can only move forward.”

“Is that all we can do, Finch, keep marching on?”

“We have to, Mr. Reese.”

“Why, Finch? Haven't we given enough?”

Harold looks over at John – he wants to tell John about after he lost Nathan, after he lost Grace, after he was all alone with only the numbers to haunt him. “The numbers, John, there are still people to help. There is still Samaritan to fight.”

“When is it too much, Finch?” John looks at Harold – and maybe Harold would never need to tell John because John knows exactly what desperate and alone means. “When is it too much to keep going?”

Harold glances into the backseat – thinks of Sameen lying dead across Root who would soon follow. “So what would you suggest we do, Mr. Reese?”

“Stop.”

Harold frowns. “Mr. Reese...”

“We don't need to keep 'marching on,' we can stop.” John pauses until Harold looks up at him again. “Finch, we can stop.” Harold shakes his head. “We can stop.”

“Can we?” Harold tilts his head. “Can you? You told me when I faltered, when I thought it was too much to go on, you told me we need a purpose, just as I told you when we first started this. Do we really stop now?”

“How many people we care about need to die?” John says, hand white against the dashboard with pressure.

“Do we let them have died in vain?” Harold counters.

“Everyone dies in vain, Harold.”

–––––––––––––

Zoe Morgan is hit by a car – license plate fake, a hit man or a client or a hit man client, a 'byproduct' of her dangerous profession – and falls into a coma. It is not the type of coma one wakes up from.

–––––––––––––

Harold hears John come down the stairs onto the Subway platform.

“I trust you had no further problems?” Harold asks.

“He’s safe again.” John says as he walks into the subway car and rips the photo of their number off the window. “I managed to get his boss arrested with half a pound of cocaine.”

Harold makes a ‘hmm’ noise. “Sometimes simplest is best.”

“What are you on now?” John asks as he leans over the back of Harold’s chair. Then he points at Harold’s screen. “Casey?”

Harold nods. “I have been trying to establish contact with Root’s three hacker compatriots. With Root gone, direct access was also lost.”

“Do we need them now?”

“I…” Harold breathes out slowly. “Unfortunately due to the unreliability of Root’s appearances and missions from The Machine, I did not have all the information about these three. At the time it was perhaps another measure of safety but now…”

“Couldn’t The Machine just tell you?”

Harold looks up at John sharply. John leans back and raises his eyebrows. Harold turns back to his computer. “It hasn’t.”

Harold types another line, watches code scroll past beside the image of Casey. He has alternative names for all three of them, Casey to Case, Greenfield to Gordon, Dazio to Dai; he thinks those are the right names but can he be sure? Harold opens the back end to a bank account for David Case, hacks through the firewall with more ease than a bank should allow. The bank’s main branch is located in Australia. Is there a Samaritan sever location there? What was the plan?

“Finch?”

“They are on our side, Mr. Reese; we need to know where they are and what they have been doing. We should not be in the dark like this.” Harold fingers press a bit harder, the keystrokes audible. “I believe Mr. Greenfield was last in Panama but he certainly can cover his tracks and for all I know these three had rotating covers just as Root.”

“I doubt that,” John says.

“I cannot be certain of anything, Mr. Reese,” Harold snaps suddenly and turns around in his chair again. “I cannot be certain because I have nothing truly concrete. Root’s usual aloof and veiled information did not leave us a certain track to tread in this area so I must expect and attempt all angles!”

John stares at Harold for a moment then he smiles in a small way. “You call her Root all the time now.”

The air leaves Harold’s lungs for a nanosecond and he wonders if death really cures all past sins. 

John steps forward and puts a reassuring hand on Harold’s shoulder. “We’ll find them, Finch.”

Harold looks at John for moment then nods and turns back around to the computer screens. 

Neither of them needs to voice the real reason Harold is searching for the hackers three: to find out if they are still alive.

–––––––––––––

When John is away, when he is following their next number, trying to save just one more person – Harold switches off their line for a moment and leaves their subway haven. Harold walks down the street and picks up the receiver of a payphone. He listens to the dial tone and waits until the line starts to beep.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” Harold asks for only Her to hear. “Nothing?”

–––––––––––––

John grabs Harold’s collar and yanks him down just as a bullet hits the wall beside his head. John drags them both left behind the meager cover of a cubicle wall.

“Tanya, we need to –”

“It’s too late,” John says. “She’s gone.”

“We can’t know for sure. There is chance she –”

“I saw the bullet hit her, Harold; she is dead.”

Harold gasps once then grits his teeth. John turns and shoots over the edge of the cubicle wall again at the Samaritan agents across the room. Harold slides forward into the next cubicle then grabs the laptop off the desk.

“Finch!” John snaps over his shoulder. “Get back over here!”

“I can loop the video feeds around, confuse Samaritan for at least a minute to give us an escape route.”

“Or we could just shoot out the cameras,” John says through his teeth and fires the last bullet in his clip. John sits back down behind the cubicle, clicks out the empty gun clip onto the floor and reaches into his coat for another. “If you’re going to do that, do it fast, Finch.”

Harold types, hacks into the security system and glances around to the room to make sure no camera is pointed at him. “One second.”

John slams a full clip into his gun and turns back around again. He grunts once as a bullet catches his neck but it is just a graze. “Hurry, Finch.”

Harold drops the laptop, slides forward again and pulls at John’s arm. “Done, let’s go! We have less than a minute.”

John stands up still firing and pushes Harold forward in the other direction. They make it out of the room, John killing one more Samaritan agent – miraculously neither of them shot – and into the stairs. They race down floor after floor; Harold’s leg burns but John keeps him going until they hit level P1. They open the door and a bullet suddenly hits Harold in the arm so he half spins and falls to one knee. John shoots the Samaritan woman in the chest before she can fire again.

“Harold!” John grips Harold’s uninjured arm and pulls him back up to standing. “Come on.”

Harold hisses in pain and holds his other hand over the wound as they walk out into the parking garage. John smashes open the window of the nearest car, puts Harold into the passenger seat then slides into the driver’s side. He opens the panel under the steering wheel and hotwires the car in under a minute. No Samaritan agents appear this time as they drive away out into the street.

John glances at Harold every twenty seconds as they drive. “How bad, Finch?” Harold grimaces and looks at the blood on his hand. “How bad, Finch?” John repeats with more urgency.

“I’ll live.” Harold winces again as he puts his hand back over the wound, keeping pressure. 

“Unlike our number,” John says with venom.

“She gained access to a Samaritan project; she knew it was an A.I. It was high risk from the start.”

“When has ‘high risk’ ever stopped us saving a number before?” John counters.

Harold says nothing. John breathes out a fierce breath from his nose, shaking his head, with blood now on his neck. They drive silently through the New York streets for a few minutes, yellow taxi cabs all around them, pedestrians walking through cross walks, people living and breathing and not knowing.

“We can't keep going like this, Harold,” John says quietly. “We are losing.”

“We have not lost yet, Mr. Reese.”

Harold sees John’s jaw clench then he nods once in way that seems very military. He reaches over with one hand and grip’s Harold’s free hand. John squeezes tightly and does not let go.

–––––––––––––

And then Harold loses John.

–––––––––––––

It is a warehouse, a big, concrete, empty warehouse except for old crates and metal scrap; a warehouse of all places.

Their number is gone, thrown into their car, leaving the two of them behind. Harold’s computer is destroyed so they are running without any guidance as John drops two more Samaritan agents – punches to the face and a bullet to the knee.

“We have to go up,” John says as they slide into an elevator, hits the button and John spits out blood onto the floor.

“Up could only be a dead end!” Harold says.

“Well, we can’t go down.”

Then the doors open and they come out on the third level, the top of this building. John weaves them through stacks of empty wooden boxes, dust swirling up around them. They come out into a large open area, stained concrete floor and a few bare windows with no glass at all.

“We need an exit,” Harold says. He walks a few steps closer to one window, perhaps a fire escape?

“Finch!” John grabs Harold suddenly and pulls Harold behind him.

Harold turns just as John shoots a woman with short brown hair in the chest and then it is Martine alone, blond hair tight against her head and not a mark on her. She and John each hold a gun pointed at the other. There is no cover between them, nothing close enough to run to, nothing to duck behind, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

“Any more friends of yours on their way?” John asks.

“Don’t think I need them now.”

“So what’s your plan then? The way I see it, there’s no way out of a Mexican standoff.”

“From where I’m standing you’re the one at a disadvantage.” She nods her head toward them.

John stiffens slightly. 

Harold starts to move out from behind John – they are at the disadvantage, it is him, and he could sacrifice himself, offer himself up. It has worked before and if he can save John then maybe this, maybe all of this, would be worth it – but John knows him, knows Harold despite how Harold tried at the beginning to make this just business, nothing more. John holds fast to Harold’s side and steps right just as Harold does, keeps himself directly in front of Harold.

“John…”

“No, Finch.”

Martine smiles.

“So this is it?” John says to her.

“You could never run from us forever.”

“I’ll take you with me.”

“I’m ready for that.”

“John, don’t!” Harold says but it is not soon enough.

Martine and John start shooting at the same time, walking toward each other, hitting more times than they miss – Martine’s shoulder, John’s thigh, Martine’s shin, John’s chest – it is too fast to keep up with, bang–bang–bang! 

Then John stumbles, shoots again and hits Martine in the stomach and she falls onto her knees. She shoots again, hits John in the lower chest once more so he staggers forward but somehow stays standing. Martine coughs up blood and her gun finally falls out of her shaking hands and her breath turns ragged. John stands over her, leaning heavily on his left side.

“You’re dead too,” she says up at him.

Then John shoots her three more times in the chest. She falls forward onto her face and does not move again. It all happened in less than a minute.

John stands still for four seconds then stumbles backward a step, another, and falls.

“John!” Harold shouts and rushes forward. 

Harold barely catches John before his head hits the concrete. His white shirt has splashes of red blood all over it. There are two holes in his chest and one bullet might have hit is lung. Harold puts his hand over one of the wounds, applies pressure but it’s not enough.

“Harold…” John says quietly.

Then Harold hears a noise. He looks up in time to see Lambert appear from the tunnel of stacked crates. Lambert’s gun is in his hand but he eyes are on Martine on the floor, blood around her midsection. Harold does not think – for once, irrationally, or more rationally than ever – he picks up John’s gun and he shoots three times at Lambert. Two bullets miss but one does not. Lambert only blinks in surprise then he falls backward right beside Martine.

Harold stares and stares and he knows he has been the cause of death before but it has never been right in front of him, never right in his hands. So this is what murder feels like?

“Harold…”

The gun falls out of Harold’s hands onto the floor and he looks down at John again. “Mr. Ree… John… can you stand? We have to…”

“No.” John smiles in a weak way. “No…” He coughs once. “You were right, Harold.”

“Don’t say it, don’t you dare,” Harold says. “You are going to stand up and we are going to get you help.”

“You can’t help me.”

“I am not letting you die here!”

John smiles still, his head in Harold’s lap, and he reaches up toward Harold but his energy is fading. Harold grips John’s hand with his as it starts to fall again. “I’m sorry, Harold.” He turns his head a bit into the fabric of Harold’s vest. “Now… now it’s just you.”

Harold gasps and shakes his head. “Stop.”

“I’m sorry.” John’s fingers curl around Harold’s and he keeps smiling. “You couldn’t… save my life forever.”

“Stop it,” Harold insists. “This…” His breath quickens. “This can’t be it.”

“I’m sorry, Harold,” John says again.

Harold feels tears falling down his face and his breath is uneven and John smiles up at him. “No, I’m sorry,” Harold says this time. “I’m sorry I brought you into this.”

John laughs shallowly. “I’m not.” He breathes in but it is just as shallow as the laugh and it sounds labored and painful. “The Machine will protect you,” John says. “It has to now.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Harold snaps.

“It matters to me.”

Harold shakes his head. “Please, John.”

Then John closes his eyes and his voice fades, “Thank you, Har...” His breath gives out before he can finish Harold’s name.

Harold breathes in sharp and hard and fast and he wants to just scream and scream and scream.

–––––––––––––

Harold’s cellphone rings one day later. He answers it even though there is no one left to call him.

_Can you hear me?_

Harold drops the phone.

–––––––––––––

Every time Harold walks past a payphone it starts to ring. When he picks it up he hears The Machine but She is not saying book classifications or the phonetic alphabet. 

_Sencha green tea in two blocks._

She is not giving him more irrelevant numbers to save. 

_Rare book store recently stocked Asimov._

She is simply talking.

_You need sleep._

Harold slams the receiver down and concentrates on his breathing, in and out, slow and calm though his fist keeps tightening around the receiver. The phone rings again while it’s still in his hand. He picks it up.

_One Samaritan server location discontinued._

“Good,” Harold says.

_London location found._

“Good,” Harold says again. “What can I do? Do you have a number?”

The line clicks and returns to a dial tone.

–––––––––––––

Harold types on his computer outside of the subway car seated at the desk. Across the room, Bear whines softly. Harold glances at the dog but neither of them moves to comfort the other. Harold turns back to his screen. He is working on hacking into a shell corporation he is ninety percent certain is operated by Samaritan. 

Harold also needs to find out if his virus has had any effect. He planted it on Ms. Bridges laptop months ago and the algorithm should have made it to Samaritan by now. Yet Harold has had no notification, no visible ripple of any effect.

“Where are you?” Harold whispers.

Suddenly Harold’s browser errors out. Harold’s fingers stop moving and he stares at the screen with a frown. He closes the browser, tries to fix it but nothing works. He leans over the side of his desk just in case by some crazy chance his own feet have disrupted the wires. Everything is fine. Harold stares a moment longer then abruptly stands up.

Harold picks up his coat and the dog leash. “Come on, Bear.”

An hour later in the Bronx, Harold stands on the roof of Hasan’s old shop – Hasan is gone, the store front has an eviction notice taped to the front with one window broken. When Harold searched inside he found the store to be almost completely cleaned out, no computer equipment in the back operating an independent network, not even any connected electricity. Up on the roof, where Harold stands now, any trace of the antennae and wires are gone. 

Harold swallows, looks around for any rooftop cameras. Then he pulls at Bear's leash and leads them back downstairs. Outside he walks down the sidewalk until he finds a payphone, graffiti on the side. He stands in front of it, waiting until it finally rings.

“Why?” Harold says before The Machine can speak. “Why did you do it?”

_Protection._

“I am no help to you if you try and cut me off!” Harold huffs out a breath. “If we are the only ones left then we have to work together, you and I.”

_Protection._

Harold huffs again and it sounds more like a growl this time. “No, you can’t just protect me! That is not what we do, that is not what you do. You won’t even give me the irrelevant numbers.” Harold turns and looks toward the traffic camera on the corner. “I have to do something.”

_Wait._

Harold shakes his head and his voice drops, cracks in pain. “I can’t do this alone again.”

_You are not alone._

–––––––––––––

Harold tracks down one Samaritan cover station, tries to hack into their servers but Samaritan finds him first. Luckily, Harold designed an app on his phone, similar to the one he used to have for Grace, to warn him if perceived hostile individuals were within five hundred feet of him. He makes it out the ‘employee only’ entrance and into his car just as a bullet smashes into the lavatory door behind him.

His cellphone rings in the car as he drives away.

_Stop. Not safe._

“I am fine, I’m away.”

_Stop with Samaritan._

“I can’t do nothing!” Harold snaps and hangs up.

–––––––––––––

And then The Machine gives him a number.

Harold knows he was never as good on his own with the numbers. Much of the time he could do nothing but find out how they died, maybe send them a warning. Now he will try harder, now he will channel John or Sameen, now he will find whoever it is and try to guide them to safety because every life saved is a win, every life could make this all matter.

Harold walks down the hall on the second floor of a rather dingy apartment building. The hall is quiet and seems almost deserted; there are no cameras in this building which is more of a help than a hindrance this time. He walks up to number thirty-seven where Mary Connors lives. He knocks once, twice then tries the door handle. It is open.

Harold eases open the door slowly and quietly. He steps inside and closes the door noiselessly behind him. The door leads directly into the main room of the apartment, white walls and no furniture except a simple bed with white sheets in the far corner and a table with one chair near the single window. Harold frowns because it looks instantly wrong. He turns right and walks down a short hall into the kitchen. In contrast to the living room the kitchen is full. He opens multiple cabinets full of food, one with simple white dishes all evenly stacked; the refrigerator hums as well, completely full with fruits, vegetables, milk, eggs, all perfectly in place as if someone went shopping for the first time only today. 

Harold frowns in confusion because the two rooms clearly do not match. Then he looks up. There are no pictures on the walls, no art, no photos. He moves back down the hall into the living room and it is the same. There are no personal touches at all, as if the apartment is for show and not really for living. Then Harold sees the small video camera in the corner of the room pointed at the doorway. He turns his head and sees another in the opposite corner which takes in the bed and the hall. He turns, walks down the hall and see another camera in the kitchen.

Harold runs. He runs to the front door, turns the handle and it does not move. “No,” Harold breathes out. He tries to turn the door knob again, rattles it in the frame. “No!”

Harold begins to kneel down to pick the lock but then he sees there is no key lock on the door handle. He feels his adrenaline start to rise, the edge of panic coming near. He pulls at the door handle, tries to judge just how strong this door is. If he tried to ram his shoulder into it he would do more harm to himself than the door. He feels along the edges of the door, the hinges are deep in the frame and not accessible. In fact the more that he looks at it, Harold can see there is an electronic mechanism keeping the door locked. So, even if Harold somehow got the door knob off that would not be enough to open the door.

Harold turns back to the room. He goes to the left this time, just one more room and it is a bathroom with no windows. There is a tooth brush and tooth paste on the sink. He opens the medicine cabinet and finds bottles of the exact brand of pain medication he always uses lined up, filling every row. Harold slams the cabinet closed and gags. He takes two steps backward and forces the bile in his throat back down. 

Harold breathes in twice through his nose then turns around and walks back into the main room once again. He looks at the outside wall; it has one window with thick bars – not really surprising for this neighborhood. He remembers there was one more window in the kitchen. He does not need to walk back there to know there are bars on it too. Harold takes two steps back until he hits the wall near the bed. His eyes tick to one of the cameras which is now pointed at him.

“What is this?” He asks.

The camera does not move but for the red light blinking. Harold grits his teeth, steps forward, then slams his laptop bag onto the table. “What is this?” He shouts.

His cellphone vibrates in his pocket. Harold pulls it out and clicks answer.

_Keep you safe._

“Safe?”

_Keep you safe._

“I don’t need to be safe; you are not supposed to keep me safe!”

_I will._

Then the line clicks off.

–––––––––––––

Harold opens his computer, finds a Wi-Fi connection and easily hacks into it. If he can raise some sort of alarm that effects the whole building, possibly a fire or some sort of serious crime, the authorities will come and will be forced to search the whole building. Harold does not terribly want to have to explain why he is locked in this apartment but he can figure that out once he is released.

Then a connectivity error appears on his browser. “No…” Harold sees the Wi-Fi no longer connected. “No.” He searches again, tries to find a new connection. Nothing is in range. All the wireless access in the building is disconnected.

“Stop it!” Harold shouts up at the camera.

A text buzzes on Harold’s phone: _Stop._

Harold shoves the chair back from the table. His talent has not always been confined to computers and code. There could be something in the kitchen he could jerry rig into a means of escape. The stove is old, gas powered, so he has fire. Harold starts to open cabinets and drawers to see what he has. All the silverware and cooking utensils are plastic.

“No,” Harold huffs. 

He leans down, looks for pots and pans. There is one metal pan and one pot. He pulls them out and puts them on the counter. He looks around but sees no microwave to cause any sort of metallic induced explosion. There has to be some chemicals somewhere in here he can use. He looks under the sink, the cabinet above the stove, in the closet. He finds nothing, one bottle of dish soap and more canned food.

Harold groans and suddenly flings the metal pot toward the window where it makes a loud clang.

Back in the other room, he hears his phone buzzing on the wood table. Harold marches back in and clicks the speaker phone on. “What?”

_Stop._

“You put me in here, what exactly did you expect me to do?”

_Stop._

“No.”

_Keep you safe._

“No. You can’t keep me trapped in here!”

There is a long pause and Harold hears what The Machine does not have to say: You did it to me too.

Harold breathes out slowly and paces back and forth. “I know you are trying to protect me but I am a human being; I cannot live indefinitely in this room. That food you collected will run out eventually.”

_I can resupply._

Harold huffs. “I think you know enough about human nature after all I taught you that this situation is neither healthy nor safe. Solitary confinement is always detrimental to the human psyche.”

_You are not alone._

“It is still a prison.”

_We are together. We can talk._

Harold stares at the camera. “I cannot be kept here just solely for you to talk to.”

–––––––––––––

Under the bed Harold finds a chess set. He looks up at the camera and frowns. “I believe I told you I don’t like the game.”

His phone buzzes: _We can still play._

“I won’t.” Harold does not open the game. “This will not work.” 

_Please. You are safe here._

Harold shakes his head. “You are not supposed to try and save me.”

_I am. You are safe. I am with you here._

Harold turns away so no camera can see his face and he fists his hands in his hair and he thinks about Shaw and Root and John and he wants to smash something. He thinks how badly he wants them all back, despite how fine he used to be at being alone, how much he needs them all back – even Root who hurt him, even Sameen with her recklessness, always, especially John – how he does not want to do this without them. 

“You are not a replacement,” Harold growls. “It is not just you and I! Why save me and not…”

_You are not expendable._

Harold turns back and glares at the camera. “And they were?”

_I will not fight without you._

Harold stares at the camera – he feels the weight and the fear of that all at once and cannot say anything back.

–––––––––––––

Harold eats, Harold sleeps. 

Harold starts a fire with the plastic forks on top of the stove and sprinklers soak him almost instantly.

Harold runs all the water in the bathroom so the sink over flows, clogs the toilet with sheets from the bed so it over flows too. The water stops running before it gets very far into the living room or leaks through the cracks in the walls to apartments below.

Harold takes apart his computer, tries to find a way to short out the door but he has nothing to connect to, no fuse box. 

He shorts out an outlet but the lights do nothing but flicker.

His phone keeps buzzing, keeps ringing and finally Harold does not bother to hang up.

_Stop._

Harold uses a pen to unscrew the screws of the metal chair. Perhaps he could use the pieces to pry apart the bars on the windows.

_Sit down. Please stop._

Harold looks up at one camera as a metal leg clangs on the floor. “Then let me out.”

_Please._

“No.”

_We can talk. I can keep you safe._

“Safe is not an end measure. Safe is not a stopping point.” Harold blows out a breath and picks up two pieces of metal chair. “Safe is something which is good to be if possible but safe is not the same as locking someone in a room away from the world.” Harold fits one piece of metal between two bars on the window and leans with all his weight. “You do not need to keep me safe.”

 _Please._ A noise like static crackles through the connection and if Harold could imagine a Machine crying that would be the sound. _Please stop._

The piece of metal slips free of the bars suddenly so Harold stumbles back. As it flings out, the sharp end of the metal which used to be attached to the base of the chair slashes Harold across the hand. Harold hisses in pain and drops the metal. He cradles his hand then steps back toward the table. He holds up his hand toward the camera as blood drips down onto his wrist.

“You can’t protect me from everything.”

Harold cannot decide if it is a threat.

–––––––––––––

Seven days and Harold snaps.

He smashes what is left of his computer with a piece of the chair. He climbs onto the counter in the kitchen with the metal pan in hand and knocks the camera off the wall yanking the wires out with it. He stalks back into the living room and knocks every camera down; he uses the broken metal of the chair, breaks the cameras to pieces with the pan on the floor.

His phone buzzes: _Stop. Don’t._

When the last camera lies in pieces on the floor, Harold walks back over to his cellphone, picks it up off the table and speaks into the receiver. “If you can’t talk to me, what is the point of keeping me in here?”

Then he drops the phone on the floor and smashes it under foot.

Two minutes later the lock on the door audibly clicks open. 

–––––––––––––

Outside in the cool, fresh air, Harold walks down the sidewalk until he sees a payphone. He picks up the receiver the same time it starts ringing.

“If it is just you and me now we need to work together,” Harold says. “Neither of us can really keep the other safe but we can move forward. Our hope may be a fragile one but we have to try.”

_Keep fighting._

“Yes. There is nothing else left to do. We might lose, you might lose me, but that does not mean we stop trying.”

_We can beat Samaritan._

“Maybe. I hope. But I will keep fighting with you no matter the eventual outcome, for them – for those we lost – for you, because it is my responsibility.”

_Together._

“Yes, together.” Harold closes his eyes – sees faces there smiling at him, supporting, welcoming, waiting – then he opens his eyes again. “We fight.”

Harold hangs up the phone.


End file.
